Gifts
by JWAB
Summary: Hate is the beginning of a love story, not the end of one.
1. Chapter 1

**Gifts**

_Hi friends! It has been a long time. I've missed you. This little confection of a fic is my Christmas gift to you. Yes, I hear you grumbling that Matt and Rebekah is a hopeless, terrible ship. Perhaps you're right. But don't forget what Katherine told us (and Katherine is rarely wrong): hate is the beginning of a love story, not the end of one. And anyway, there is nothing like a hiatus to fan my fic engine._

_As is so often the case, I sing a resounding chorus of gratitude to CreepingMuse for her beta. It is much, much better thanks to her insight. And foresight. This one is for her._

_Also, if you'd like to know where the idea for this came from (you know, aside from watching the show), check out "TVD for Grownups" (on tumblr), where CreepingMuse and I react to the latest episode. I'm pretty sure you'll dig the hell out of it. _

**Chapter 1**

"Hello, Matt."

Even amid the din of the late-night crowd, Matt could never mistake that voice. He freezes, helpless. He's carrying a tray with at least a dozen dirty plates, plus grimy, used silverware and half-full water glasses. It takes both arms to brace it, leaving him painfully vulnerable. "Rebekah," he says, a bare tremble in his breath. "You're… out?"

"April. Pays to have friends."

He sets the tray down heavily on the bar and turns around – would whip around but he knows that he has to be wary with Rebekah. It doesn't seem possible that less than a day ago she was ash, held together by nothing but ancient traces of blood and magic. Yet here she is, dewy and glowing with life: hair spun gold, clinging green dress, and full, red lips, like Christmas. She is beautiful in a way that is dangerously inviting, on the outside. On the inside, she is one hundred percent serpent. "April doesn't know you. Not yet. She never would have let you out if she did."

Rebekah pouts, shifting her weight and cocking her hip. It would be cute if it wasn't terrifying. "You're still mad at me, aren't you?"

He rolls his eyes and retrieves the heavy tray, balancing it partially on his shoulder. "You tried to kill me. So yeah, I'm mad."

She purses her lips, studying him. It's hard to tell what she's thinking.

Matt knows he shouldn't have picked up the tray again. Any minute, he might need his hands to defend himself. Although the tray's big enough that it would make a good shield, so maybe it's not so bad.

"How's your new truck?" she prods.

"Fine." A bald-faced lie. It is the most beautiful, most perfect, most emotionally complicated thing he has ever owned. It took him a week just to decide to drive it. It sat there in his driveway, reminding him, pissing him off, while he walked to school or hitched a ride with Tyler or Jeremy. He would peer in the window after work, gaze at the hidden wonders inside the dashboard, imagine the power under the hood. It looked good, he had to admit, but it was tainted. Simple as that. But Tyler was busy with Hayley and Jeremy wasn't always around, so in the end, he had to face the fact that he needed the wheels. With zero money to buy a new junker, and bolstered by the conviction that none of this was his fault, he came around to the conclusion that he could accept the truck. He didn't, couldn't forgive her, but it was nice to have a car to get around. And it was really, really nice to have _this _car.

"You know, it's the top of the line. I insisted that it include all the newest things. Do you like the seat warmers?"

"I haven't tried them." Another lie. Winter mornings are cold in Mystic Falls; so are late nights after a long shift. Whoever came up with seat warmers is a genius. Plus, they remind him of the electric blanket his mother kept on her bed when they were kids, how he and Vicky used to snuggle in beside her, one on each side, and turn the controls all the way up. Back before things got bad the first time. But he will not share a single droplet of that with Rebekah. She doesn't deserve it.

"And don't you just love the delightful little televisions on the backs of the seats? Oh, and I wanted to get a blue paint job to match your eyes but the pewter gray was much more commanding, don't you think?"

Matt stares past her. Accusing comments bubble to the surface about not having enough living friends and family to fill a back seat, but he makes his lips into a line and wills Rebekah to just shut up and leave.

"But is it big enough? Who knew you could have more than two seats in a truck? It's lovely."

Of course it's lovely. Lovely with the stink of evil on it. "I guess," he says through gritted teeth.

"The upholstery is waterproof."

That is the last straw. Matt wheezes a dark laugh. "Are you kidding me?"

Impossibly, she acts hurt. Her shoulders slump. A black bra strap falls out from the cap sleeve of her dress; she catches it, wrapping it tightly up on her shoulder.

"Rebekah," Matt attempts, voice full of rasp and exhaustion, "why don't you just leave me alone?"

She studies the toe of her right boot, gray leather, probably Italian. Probably made of babies. "You should be nicer to me," she says softly. "You should forgive me."

"I should? Why, because you could kill me in an instant?"

"No," she whispers, "because I'm sorry." And for a moment, Matt thinks that might be the end of it. She might slink off into the night and he might actually be able to get on with his. But then she flashes him a look from below her long, mascaraed eyelashes. A practiced, calculated look that he just knows usually gets her what she wants.

He can see why. There is something about her, or could be with a little sincerity mixed in. Something sweet and open that keeps him standing here. But you'd think after a thousand years she would learn how to be a person, how to apologize and mean it. How to not kill people she seems to like. No, she may be used to getting away with murder with a bribe and a smile, but not this time. "Look, I only took the truck because it's your fault that mine is now a fish tank. Just because I'm driving it doesn't mean I forgive you."

She doesn't have to glance at his face to expose her disappointment. "But don't you see? I gave you the truck to make it up to you."

Matt erupts. "Make it up to me? Rebekah, you tried to kill me!"

"No, I tried to kill Elena!" she shouts back, finally turning her blazing eyes on him, jutting her chin out exactly as a child would.

Not good enough, not by a mile. "You knew it was me driving. Your freaky vampire eyes can see through windshields, same as mine. You knew I would die in that accident. You're not dumb." He breathes hard, fueled by the kind of adrenaline rush that makes it possible to stand up to an Original vampire. His pale face flushes a mottled pink. "Admit it, you knew."

Rebekah stands statue-still, not quite defiant but not exactly defeated. "Yes, I knew."

"So quit trying to pretend it was something less than premeditated murder. Okay? Quit trying to buy me off with some fancy new truck."

"And insurance."

He sighs. She is _so stubborn_. It's like arguing with a toddler. And his arm is getting tired. "Right," he murmurs, turning his back. Sure, she could break his neck here in public, but somehow, after this, he's pretty sure she won't.

"Top of the line insurance, Matt!" she calls as he pushes through the swinging door into the back. "Nothing but the best!"

Maybe if he stays in the kitchen, volunteers for dishwashing duty, she'll be gone when his shift is over.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Dear readers, including Kate the guest, you are rainbows. Have some more, friends. _

Matt stands in front of his open locker, tying his apron, when he hears the swell of noise from the front. He doesn't think much of it at first, but it doesn't stop. Voices, laughing, the squeal of the front door, back and forth, never closing all the way: the sounds multiply until he has to find out what's happening.

The place is packed with people. They press against the hostess podium. They crowd around the bar three people deep. Some push past the waiting throng to the dining room, where they squeeze into already-occupied booths, six and eight at tables meant for four. The roar is thick, like a wall.

"Where's Matt?" Matt overhears through the din, from near the podium.

"What?" the new, still essentially untrained hostess asks, her voice thin over the clamoring guests.

"I have to sit in Matt's section."

She makes a face like something smells. "Matt Donovan? But he's not a waiter."

"You have to seat me where he's working!"

Someone edges up next to the demanding patron. "Me, too!"

Matt's mouth is slack as he watches the improbable scene unfold.

"The whole place is his section," the hostess argues. "He's the busboy."

More people enter every second. It's beginning to get uncomfortably sweaty.

"Sit wherever you want," she calls out over the crowd, throwing her hands up in disgust.

The crowd cheers, streaming down the aisles, filling every available space.

Matt goes back into the kitchen. He tries to keep his head down, slicing bread and filling salt shakers, but soon the embarrassing reports start coming back.

"What the fuck, man?" Kevin asks, slamming his notepad down next to Matt's work space. "Is this some sort of joke?" He is short and dramatic. Loud, high voice. Easily riled.

"No, why?" Matt asks, trying to act nonchalant.

"No one's listening to me. I couldn't get two words out before they started begging for you. There are at least fifty people in my section and not one of them wants me to wait on them."

"They want me?" he stammers. This can't be happening.

"It's bullshit, that's what it is, and I'm not standing for it. Here's a pen. Good fucking luck."

Stephanie, the assistant manager, slams the kitchen door open. "Where's Matt?"

"Get in line, Steph," Kevin barks back at her.

She squeezes in between Kevin and Matt. "Donovan, I don't know what you're trying to pull, but I'm done. Done, do you hear me? You can _have_ my section. I hope you like ravenous hordes."

"What?" Matt coughs, but it's buried by two more of the wait staff banging the door open. The roar of the crowd cuts off conversation for a few seconds.

Ashley and Tim collapse, side by side, against the counter. "The entire state of Virginia has a crush on Donovan," Tim carps.

"I hate people," Ashley fumes.

There's a sinking feeling in Matt's stomach and it's only getting worse.

Tim slaps Matt's butt. "You'd better get out there, heartbreaker. They're going to tear the place apart."

Matt stares, flushed and self-conscious, at the bread in front of him on the cutting board. He has to do something. He lays the knife down and brushes his hands on his apron, pushing past his angry co-workers to the door. After a deep breath, he opens it.

"Everybody!" He can barely hear himself. He looks around but doesn't recognize a single face. "Guys!" he yells, louder. More noise. He makes his way to the hostess podium, where a flimsy microphone that never gets used is perched. It'd better still work. He flips a few switches until one lights up. "Hello?" Bingo: amplification. "Everybody, can I have your attention?" Why aren't they listening?

Maybe because they don't know who he is.

"Guys! I'm Matt!"

Silence, then building applause, long and warm. A few patrons whistle and hoot, like he's some sort of hero.

He holds the mic up to his mouth. "Um, thanks," he says, mostly to get them to stop. "Listen, I need you to do me a favor."

"Anything!" a female voice calls from the back of the room. A few laughs cascade over the crowd.

"Great," he calls back, forcing a grin. "I'm not a waiter. But there's a great wait staff here that wants to bring you whatever you want to eat, or drink, or whatever."

"Fuck them, we want you!" a deep, male voice hollers. Shouts of affirmation follow.

This is surreal. "Um, okay. Look. If I promise to come around and say hey to each of you, will you just order from the real waiters?"

Grumbling from the crowd.

"It would really help me out. And them."

He waits. No dice.

Kevin is suddenly at Matt's side, seething and superior. "Better get started."

Matt covers the mic with a sweaty palm. "I can't do this by myself," he whispers.

Ashley puts her hand on his back. "Doesn't look like you have a choice." She offers him her notepad and a pen. "I can shadow you. If you want."

"God, yes," Matt sighs, grateful down to his bones.

It's exactly as much of a disaster as you might expect. Of course, it couldn't be easy. They couldn't be simple orders, not a single one of them. Substitutions, sharing plates, drinks remembered out of order. It starts out terrible and gets worse with every table.

Five minutes in, he figures it out. Some of it. The crux, anyway.

A friendly but turtle-slow patron can't decide how he wants his burger. He claims the last time he was here, he asked for medium but got well done. "Aw, what does it matter, really?" he concludes. "I'm going to tip you big whether it's medium or medium well."

"What?" Matt rasps.

"I don't care, is what I'm saying."

Matt pauses, not sure he understands. "Because you're going to tip me?"

"'S why I'm here. I've got a hundred with your name on it burning a hole in my pocket." He hears variations on the theme from table after demanding table.

Rebekah. Has to be.

* * *

Matt doesn't need the seat warmers on the drive home because a) he's still sweating, and b) it's almost dawn. He pulls into his driveway to find Rebekah posed sweetly on the bare concrete stoop. Because his night – morning, whatever – had the tiniest sliver of room to get worse.

He slams the truck's door harder than he needs to. Vicarious abuse.

"Be careful with my baby," Rebekah croons, standing up.

"It's not yours," Matt grumbles. If he can manage to end this conversation quickly, he'll be able to sleep for two hours before he has to leave for school. If he doesn't shower. Which he really needs to. He smells like fries and meat.

Rebekah stands directly in his way. "How was your night?" she asks, a smirk playing at her lips.

He glares at her. "I know it was you."

Her green eyes sparkle with mischievous innocence, like she had just done all his laundry or baked him a surprise cake. "You're welcome."

"You have to be kidding me."

"Come on, Matt. Don't be upset. You must have made several thousand dollars in tips tonight." She grins; she doesn't even try to hide it. "Somewhere around seven thousand, if I'm not mistaken."

He folds his arms and tries not to wince when he notices a new strain in his right shoulder. "I didn't make a cent, actually."

Her infuriating grin fades. "But that's impossible."

"What did you do? Compel everyone you ran into today?"

"No, of course not," she says dismissively. "I went to the Dixie Inn on route 14 and commandeered the lot."

Talk about oblivious. Not only had she ruined his night, the rest of the staff's, and all the patrons', but the entire staff at the Dixie Inn got screwed as well, at her freakin' whim. Hurricane Rebekah. "I hate compulsion, you know that? The whole idea of it makes me sick."

She flicks a blond wave out of her eyes. "They were supposed to _tip_ you. _Only_ you."

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I got that."

"So?"

"So I couldn't do all that work by myself – all the orders for the entire restaurant for seven hours? We worked as a team. It was the only way."

"My little quarterback," she beams, swaying girlishly.

"Yeah, whatever. Everybody treated the wait staff like shit all night while they worked their asses off for this crazy crowd that descended out of nowhere, all at one time. I couldn't have done it without them – I mean, I'm not even a waiter."

"You're not?"

For all she pretends to care, she doesn't know the first thing about him. "No, Rebekah! I'm a goddamn busboy!"

"Oh." She smoothes her sleeves, avoiding his eyes.

"Yeah. So I divided up all those tips I didn't ask for and barely earned among everyone else. It was the best I could do for them."

Rebekah stares at the ground.

"I don't get why you did it. Killing me wasn't enough for you?"

Her gaze darts to the driveway, to where the truck glistens in the early morning light. "I just wanted to do something nice for you, something that would make you forgive me."

"Another bribe?"

"No, Matt: I understand that you didn't want… that you work hard and you earn what you get. I thought maybe that was why the truck made you uncomfortable. You don't like to get something for nothing." She lifts her eyes to his and he glimpses something like sincerity there. Something real. "So I figured, if I wanted to give you something – like, for instance, a helpfully large amount of money – you would only accept it if you earned it yourself."

He studies her, squinting, wary of admitting that her idea, flawed as it was, was a step up from the truck bribe. A small step. "Okay, look. Don't give me things anymore."

She smirks again. "So I'm forgiven?"

"No." He brushes past her and unlocks the door. It's probably unnecessary: a rough wind could blow it clean out of its frame.

"Can I come in?" she asks from the stoop.

He doesn't turn around. "I need to sleep," he says, stepping over the threshold.

"But I -"

Now he whips around. He's got to end this dance, if only to shut down this corner of unpredictability in his life. "It's not okay, Rebekah. Even if you were aiming for Elena, I was collateral damage and that was fine to you. What kind of a person is okay with that?"

Rebekah hovers just outside the door. "But you didn't die."

"Missing the point."

She bites her bottom lip, glancing at the truck again as if drawing strength from it. "What's the use, Matt? What's the point of protecting someone, anyone, when it gets me nowhere?"

His brow furrows.

"You could never have feelings for me. You were never going to take me to prom, or kiss me, or invite me in. No one ever loves me back, or even likes me, so what's the point?"

Matt sighs, wilting in the doorjamb. It creaks against his weight. "Rebekah."

"You were playing me, you and the rest of them. I'm not an idiot. So yes, I was well aware that you would _possibly_ die that night. One less person around who could care less about me."

He shakes his head, heavy with exhaustion and empathy. He knows about unrequited feelings; he loved Elena far longer than she loved him. Still does, although the emotion has changed into something mellower and longer lasting. Not to mention pining for a mother who, he suspects, rarely gives him a second thought. "I could have liked you," he says quietly, glancing at her dawning surprise.

Her lips fall open. "I'm sorry, Matt."

"I know."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_If I don't manage to update again before the holiday, I wish you all a day filled with family, joy, and twinkling lights._

* * *

_I could use a break_, Matt thinks as he turns the thick, electronic key in the truck's ignition. It purrs. He doesn't need the radio; he loves to listen to the music of the engine. With his old truck, he didn't have a choice: the radio was stolen a decade ago and anyway he had to keep his ears open for the first tell-tale sounds of engine failure. Nope, now he just listens because he likes the hum.

Weekends are even busier than weekdays. Football practice Saturday and Sunday seven to noon, and then he's at the Grill by 12:30. Usually he pulls a double shift, catching a few hours of sleep before he does it all again. He's been tired for so long now. He can't remember the last time he had a whole day off.

The Saturday night crowd was comparatively calm. Of course, everything would seem calm after Thursday night's fiasco. Kevin may never let him live it down, but with everyone else, thankfully including Stephanie, it's water under the bridge. He even managed to get some studying done tonight during a lull.

Yeah, a day off would be great – to do laundry, clean the grime off the inside of the shower curtain, cook something with fresh vegetables. But he needs the money more than he needs the green beans. He pulls out of the nearly empty parking lot behind the Grill and heads home.

He's on alert as soon as he makes the right turn onto his street. There are three work trucks in front of his house and it looks like all the lights are on inside. He pulls into the driveway and rushes to the side yard, quietly digging out the aluminum bat from under a pile of old sports equipment.

He steps silently through the already open door, holding his bat up high over his right shoulder, poised to swing. Cardboard boxes stuffed with rags, tarps, and scraps of wood clutter the entry space. Not his; not what you'd expect to find from burglars, either. He falters, letting the bat rest on his shoulder. "Hello?" he calls into the house.

"In here," floats a crisp female voice from the living room. He follows around the hall corner, emerging into an entirely different room than he left that morning. The walls are buttery yellow, the floor is shiny new hardwood. There's a new, overstuffed couch, new white linen curtains, and a woman in paint-spattered jeans is painting a coat of white enamel on the wood frame of what appears to be a new window.

"What's going on?" he asks, frozen in the doorway.

"Just a sec," she says, taking a last pass over the sill. She gets up off her knees, dropping the brush into a nearly empty paint bucket. She brushes her hands on her thighs. "You must be Matt. I'm Janet."

Matt lets her shake his hand and nods, his eyes wide as he tries to take it all in. "Janet, did you do all of this?"

"Me? No, I specialize in paint – me and Jeff. Furniture got delivered after lunch. Josh and his crew did the floors and Eli did the front door and the windows. Double paned." She slides the window open and closed; it's silent and smooth. "What do you think?"

"I honestly don't know." He follows the sound of hammering into the kitchen. His fridge is in the middle of the floor while two men crouch in the space it had once occupied, nailing floorboards down. Scratch that. That is not his fridge. It's new.

He continues down the hall. His room is sporting the same new floor, plus two new windows and a fresh, sky blue coat of paint. Further down the hall, his mother's bedroom door is wide open. A tall guy in a painter's cap is rolling a second deep plum coat onto the walls. The sheets are brand new. They're shimmering. Satin? "Hey, Jeff," Matt calls, shell-shocked.

Jeff waves without turning around.

Matt doesn't even open up the bathroom. It probably looks like a Swiss spa or something. Not that he'd be much of a judge. He wanders, dazed, to the front door. He was too preoccupied to notice at first, but now he laughs out loud. There's no question that it's been replaced. There's a sturdy, rebuilt frame, newly painted the same white enamel, and a beautiful wood door inlaid with a small stained-glass window. This is the kind of door that could actually keep out burglars. Or uninvited contractors.

He steps over the threshold again, now fully sealed to prevent tripping, and sits down on the stoop, the only part of the house that's still exactly the same as he left it this morning. Not that he was all that attached to, or could even really stand, his old shack of a house, but what part of _don't give me things anymore_ did she not understand?

* * *

When Matt leaves for practice Sunday morning, the crews are back, loading in wood trim, PVC pipe, gallons more paint for another day of work. He doesn't bother to tell them not to; compelled people can't be reasoned with. He knows from experience.

For the first time, his room was the perfect temperature when he woke up. Those windows are no joke.

The cheerleaders are gathering on the sideline when the players take their first break around nine. Rebekah is in stretchy black, hair pulled back in a tight, long ponytail. He sees now that, even dressed like all the others, she doesn't blend in; how could she ever expect to? She glows, effortlessly drawing his attention without even a glance in his direction. Her eyes don't focus on, or perhaps even see, the girls on the squad. Matt can imagine that they see the past superimposed on the present, see what groups of young women gathered to do six hundred years ago, when she was already ancient by anyone's standard. Rebekah can't be a part of the crowd, any crowd, least of all this one that she effortlessly controls by simple virtue of being pretty and flexible and having a thousand years on each of them.

It's hard – but important – to remember that these enthusiastic, perfumed drones mean nothing to her. Her posture is a dead giveaway: elegant, supple, assured like only a predator can be, a creature at the top of her food chain. He must remind himself what she is, because it would be easy to mistake as truth the vulnerability she offers up like a kiss. It would be so very easy to accept her relentless gifts as real attempts to make things right. With her, there is no right. He is a toy, a puppet, a diversion. He is food.

He digs deep, steeling himself against the flutter that overtakes him when she's close. The fear that chokes him. He stalks over to where she stands, overseeing the squad's stretching routine. "I told you not to give me anything anymore," he rasps through his teeth, quiet but full of venom.

She points a new arrival to an empty spot. "I didn't."

Matt wraps his fingers around her bicep and pulls her toward the empty bleachers. "My house is filled with contractors who _you compelled_. Seriously, Rebekah, this is too freakin' much."

She adjusts her jaw behind closed lips, not quite pouting, and firmly tugs herself out of his grip. "They weren't compelled. It makes you sick."

Matt opens his mouth but doesn't speak.

"How is the work coming along?"

He rolls his eyes. How can a person be so consistently wrong? "I don't want you to keep giving me things."

"But you don't own that house, your mother does. Technically," she says, winding a stray hair over her ear, "this is for her."

He exhales a bitter laugh. "You want me to let you off on a technicality? Are you serious?"

She glances at his face, squinting as if into the sun, and then quickly her gaze falls to the tie holding his practice pads in place. "I know you're not going to forgive me. What I did to you… it was wrong. Unforgivable, to sacrifice your life for petty revenge. I get that now. God knows I know what it feels like to be in your position."

Matt's brow furrows with doubt.

"My brother and his ambition," she clarifies, losing herself in thought for a long moment. "I've always forgiven him, in the end. I've had to. He's my family, no matter what he does, no matter how it hurts me. Just as I expect when your mother comes back you'll forgive her for leaving – for everything really. You'll have to and, more important, you'll want to. She's your family."

He can only muster a hollow nod. She's right.

"But not me. I'm just a monster on the outskirts of your life. You're right not to forgive me. No amount of money, no gift can buy your good judgment."

He wants to argue that she's not a monster. Or that she's only rarely a monster. Or that she's only a monster when she acts like one and that lately, with him, she's been not exactly a monster. But he can't find where to start, which thread is the one that he really believes, and then she interrupts.

"To be honest, I'm grateful to you."

"You are? For what?"

"For reminding me. I've only ever known one person like you and he was at odds with Klaus for centuries, so we were often apart. You remind me of him, of Elijah. You've got conviction. You're generous, good. Independent. I want to be more like him. Like you."

"You do?"

She turns her attention to the grass at their feet. "I know it's hard to believe, but I want to do the right thing, and the house… I'm sorry if it was awkward. I should have gotten your permission but I was afraid you'd refuse and I _so_ wanted to do it. You deserve to have a comfortable home, at the very least. It was just such an easy thing for me – in a thousand years, you collect a lot of money without even trying. Honestly, just a glimpse in your door and I could see how much it could mean to you." She breaks into a quick, mischievous grin. "To your mother, rather."

He smiles, more with his eyes than his lips, but it's unmistakable. He smiles because she did something wonderful for the right reasons.

"Donovan!" the coach calls from down the field.

Rebekah tugs her sleeves over her wrists, just the way any cheerleader would, talking to any quarterback. To Matt, the gesture rings true, not some manipulative attempt to capture the essence of being a girl. It's real.

Matt takes a deep breath, sure he's going to be sorry for what he's about to do, but just as sure it's the right thing. "I get off at eight tonight. Come over and you can check out the new digs."

He jogs back toward the waiting team, leaving Rebekah speechless.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_After a glass of Kentucky eggnog and hours of serious sledding, I'm back to reality or whatever this is. Selective, imagined, speculative reality? Good enough for us._

Rebekah is sitting on Matt's front stoop when he rolls up, half an hour later than he said he'd be here. One work truck is still parked out front and every light is on inside, just as they were the night before. He approaches her with some hesitation; he pretty much promised to invite her in, but now he's having a hard time putting aside the fundamental issue that she _has_ to be invited in _because_ _she is a vampire_. And maybe, just maybe, he shouldn't have offered to give a vampire a thorough tour of his house, no matter how nice the new floor is.

But then, he wouldn't have much of a house to show if it weren't for her. She gave it freely, without the expectation of anything in return, even forgiveness. She held to the letter of his law, technically, by giving a gift that bypassed him and went to his mother. And she listened to him: she didn't compel the workers to do the job quickly, on short notice, she just paid them enough that they wanted to. It was all such a departure from the Rebekah he was used to. Maybe she really did want to follow his example.

Although, as role models go, he himself has never been much of a gift giver. Never had the money or the creativity for it. Honestly, the best he could manage was getting people just the right gift card. No wrapping, no thinking, and much more straightforward financially. A perfect, if impersonal, solution.

Not Rebekah. He has to admit that her gifts, for all their faults, have shown real consideration for who he is and what he needs. A car, definitely, and not just any car. His dream car. Money, certainly, and not just a check, but the opportunity to earn it. And the house… how could she have known the pang of jealousy he feels every time he goes to Elena's place, Jeremy's now, or Tyler's? He doesn't show it – he always berates himself for it – but the envy is permanent. Even Caroline's house is beautiful, if not much bigger than his. They all have nice things. And now, so does Matt. Sure, his new, rich surroundings feel like they could vanish any second. They don't quite feel like they belong to him yet. But they're getting there. He's getting there. Because of relentless, surprising Rebekah.

This is going to be fine. And his bat is leaning against his bed, just in case.

She stands, hands clasped tightly in front of her waist. "Hi."

"Hi," Matt says, so softly he can barely hear himself. "Looks like they're still working."

"Eli is putting in one of those enormous shower heads that make it feel like it's raining. Last minute change."

"Almost done!" Eli calls through the open bathroom window only a few feet away.

"Take your time," Matt assures him, raising his voice just enough, but it sounds awkwardly, embarrassingly loud for what feels like a pretty intimate moment unfolding out here. He stares at the key in his hand. This is it. He pushes the unlatched door open wider, stepping self-consciously into the brightly lit entry way, then takes a deep breath before facing Rebekah, still waiting on the stoop. "So," he begins.

"So," she repeats, her face almost severe in its lack of expression.

"You should… you should come in."

A smile blooms, first on her lips, then a sparkle in her eyes that ignites to light up her entire face. How is it possible that she is unarguably the definition of fresh and sweet? "I'd like that," she responds quietly.

He stands aside and lets her pass. No turning back now.

* * *

Matt arrives a few minutes early for class Monday morning for the first time in as long as he can remember. He slept heavily and well, waking before his alarm. The clouds are already burning off; it's going to be a beautiful, warm day.

Rebekah is standing in front of April at one of the picnic tables positioned around the front of the school. April puts on a coat of lipstick while Rebekah holds a small mirror for her. When April catches a glimpse of Matt, she hands back the lipstick, flushing slightly pink. Sweet kid.

Rebekah pivots around and sees him, too. Technically – there's that word again, totally meaningless – the girls are the same age. Fifteen. But April is the same as every other kid at this school; Rebekah glimmers like a celebrity in a grocery store or a diamond in a box of rocks. Although you wouldn't know it from the simple pleasure Rebekah seems get just seeing Matt.

Who knows, maybe she's remembering their little tour last night. It was nothing special, really: she quietly followed him around the house while he pointed out the things that were different. Not like the new floor, new paint, new windows, and new furniture that she picked out herself weren't totally obvious to her. It only took a few minutes. He offered her a glass of water – it was that or a spoonful of mustard. She politely turned him down. Before she left, he thanked her. And that was that. But it was nice. Makes him grin to think about it and before he knows it they're sharing an open, generous smile.

He hikes his heavy backpack up on his left shoulder – the right's still bothering him – and heads over to them. "Hey," he says, nodding at April but looking at Rebekah.

"Hi," Rebekah says leadingly. She nudges April.

"Oh, hi," April says. "Right."

There is something they're not saying because he's standing here. It's clear as day. He shifts his weight to leave.

"Um," April starts, too loud, to keep him from going. "I was wondering." She wipes her index finger tightly below her bottom lip, getting rid of excess lipstick, dragging her lip with it a little. "Would you like to go – with me – to get some ice cream?"

He stifles a confused squint. "Ice cream?"

She cocks her hip, smirking apologetically. "Thank you ice cream. For saving me at Miss Mystic Falls."

Matt nods slowly. "Thank you ice cream."

Rebekah beams just behind April, just out of her line of sight. "April tells me you were quite the gentleman, swooping in at the very last second." Her gaze doesn't leave Matt's face.

April bites her lip, smearing red across her front teeth. "He was amazing," she coos, a little star struck. "It would have been a disaster without him."

He's pretty sure that anybody would have done the same in his shoes. He just got there first. "I don't know about that -"

"Please?" April's flush is down past her jaw now. Matt has only glanced at her a few times during their exchange because he can't seem to look away from Rebekah.

It's nice to see her. He realizes that something has shifted between them. She's not on the outskirts of his life anymore. And now she wants him to go on a date with April. Huh.

Rebekah mouths the word _please_.

Matt nods again. "Yeah, okay." Rebekah and April both smile, although Rebekah's smile has a layer of regret that April's couldn't possibly have. Not at her age.

"Yay," April sings with two giddy, stiff claps of her hands. "After school?"

"After practice. Seven?"

"Oh, right, sure. Quarterback." He swears he could see stars in her eyes if he looked carefully. All because he can throw a ball. He'll never get used to that. "Um, should I meet you downtown?" she asks.

"I can pick you up. You still live on Maple?"

She nods, a little surprised. Rebekah raises an eyebrow at him.

Matt furrows his brow, his gaze faltering to the ground. "The pastor used to have parties and stuff at his house sometimes," he explains, "when we were kids."

April's chin juts to one side. "I don't remember you coming to anything."

Matt digs his fists into the front pockets of his jeans. "Yeah, sometimes I did. Anyway." He hikes his backpack up one more time, just as the bell rings. "Class. Gotta go."

"Bye," Rebekah breathes as he walks away, just loud enough for him to hear her.

* * *

Matt perches uncomfortably on a filigreed metal chair, painted pastel pink like everything else in the yogurt shop. Yogurt, not ice cream. Soft serve yogurt, as much as you can pack into a small bucket, with toppings that barely qualify as food. Mounds of them.

April fills her bucket with three flavors of frozen yogurt, one that's actually blue, and a stomach-turning combination of fruit-flavored nuggets and chocolate candies. Matt's got a small hill of chocolate yogurt, already melting before it hit the bottom of what they laughingly call a cup here. April pays at the counter, then joins him at the revoltingly cute table.

"I was so excited when they got a Moonberry in town," she says around a dainty mouthful of gummy worms. "Weren't you?"

Matt didn't realize this place existed until four minutes ago. "Yeah, I guess," he says, swirling up a bite. His real responsibility with April weighs heavily on him. No matter how date-ish this feels to her, she's new to the dark truths of this town. She needs his guidance, and this is as good a time as any. "So, April. Do you have questions? About the -" he leans in and whispers – "vampires?"

She digs an Oreo crumb out from under a mound of tan-colored yogurt. "Not really," she says with a shrug. "Rebekah explained a lot, and Jeremy and Bonnie and Elena came over and talked with me."

Matt waits for more, but April seems fine. "You're not scared?"

She draws zigzags in her now-exposed blue yogurt while she considers his question. "I don't think so, actually. I mean, all these people are my friends. Elena, Caroline. Rebekah. They're not all that different from the way they used to be – I mean, Elena and Caroline. They're the same as us, essentially. It's weird that they're not going to get older, and yeah, I know there are bad ones, but mostly it's just like finding out someone you know is secretly a Buddhist or something."

He imagines Damon Salvatore, wrapped in one of those bright orange togas, ringing tiny little bells and meditating for world peace. Or whatever they do. She's so wrong, so naïve, but he has to hand it to her: her attitude is much kinder than his own was when he first found out. He sighs, gazing out the front window of the shop, over her head, onto Main Street. His town looks so ordinary. Was it ever normal?

"Anyway, they told me how to protect myself." She jingles her bracelet. "I'm going to be fine."

He makes a mental note to keep an eye out for her. Her, and Jeremy, and Bonnie, and Elena and Tyler and Caroline and Sheriff Forbes and the new coach. And Rebekah, who deserves to have someone watching out for her. "Just lay low, okay?"

She glops a melty bite onto her spoon. "Got it," she agrees.

"And be careful."

"Okay, _Dad_," she drones, then immediately turns white. "Oh God, that was awful."

He allows a gentle, sad grin. "Don't sweat it. We've all lost people. It takes time for your head to adjust."

Her eyes glisten with potential tears. "I'm sorry," she says, sniffing them back.

Matt lays his hand over hers on the table, but yanks it back a moment later. Oops.

"You don't have to worry about me," she says, returning her sad smile. "I know this isn't a date."

He feels like a jerk, but it one hundred percent can't be a date. "It's just -"

"I really only wanted to thank you. Seriously, that's all." She looks him right in the eye before digging back in to her pile of yogurt.

"Well, you're welcome," Matt says, not entirely sure he dodged what he thinks he just dodged.

They eat in silence.

"So," he says because the quiet is starting to itch. "You undaggered Rebekah."

"Yeah," April says, sitting a little taller. "I couldn't leave her there. She's my friend."

He scoops up the last spoonful of what used to be frozen yogurt.

"She really listens to me. She gets me. And," she continues with a sharper edge, "she doesn't make me feel like a little kid all the time."

Matt tilts his head. "What?"

"I'm two years younger and you guys act like I'm still in kindergarten. Just cause you watched me grow up? I watched you grow up, too."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Fair enough."

* * *

After he drops April off at her house with a very short, very platonic hug, Matt heads over to the Grill. If Steph isn't there, he can probably get a beer or two at the bar. He goes in through the back and checks the roster: score, no Steph tonight. Busting through the swinging door between the kitchen and the dining room, he fills a glass most of the way before he notices Rebekah sitting alone on the other side of the bar.

"How was your date?" she asks, a wistful smile in her eyes.

"It wasn't a date," he answers, twisting the glass to keep the foam from overflowing.

"For her it was."

Matt sits on the stool beside her. He knew April hadn't been completely honest, but it wasn't the sort of situation where you insist on truth, and it didn't matter either way. It could never have been a date. He takes a swig of lager. "When Elena and I first started going out in junior high, she used to babysit April. Probably wasn't necessary – April's only a few years younger than us. But after April'd go to sleep, I'd bike over and make out with Elena on the couch. For hours."

Rebekah chuckles. "So that's how you knew where she lived."

"Never once went to a church thing there. Not really my thing. But I know that couch pretty well."

Rebekah stirs olive circles in her martini. "Must be hard to watch Elena with the Salvatores."

"At first, yeah. But now?" He takes a long, slow drink. "People change, things change. Feelings change. We've known each other forever…" He trails off, musing silently that Rebekah's version of forever is so much closer to actual forever than his. By a factor of something like five hundred. And now, Elena's version will almost certainly outlast his. "Anyway, it's not the same anymore."

"Since she became a vampire?" she asks with a hint of bitterness.

"No," he says gently, sneaking a glance at her. "I'll always love Elena. She's like a sister to me. Doesn't matter if she's a vampire or not."

"Matt Donovan, you're a unique person."

He scoffs and takes another swig.

She stirs her drink first one direction, then the other. "It was good of you to go on that date with April."

His cheeks threaten to flush. "Why did you want me to?" It's a question he's needed answered all day but didn't know why. Still doesn't.

She sips from her glass, then slides her olive off its skewer between her teeth and chews it slowly. "I've never had a friend like her," she finally says. "Never had the time. You know, on the run and all. Constantly. She's very kind."

He nods, willing his cheeks to cool down. Somehow, this answer isn't satisfying.

"She trusts me. No one ever trusts me. Not my brother, not anyone… not you. But she does and I want to be worthy of it."

Matt gulps a mouthful of lager and tries not to consider whether or not he trusts her. He thinks he might, a little.

Rebekah chuckles after another sip. "She was so nervous to ask you. I just gave her a bit of encouragement. And lipstick. But it was good of you to go."

He turns on his stool to face her. "I probably wouldn't have done it if you hadn't asked me to."

She smiles but doesn't look at him. "Of course you would have."


	5. Chapter 5

_Coming in for a landing... should touch down in another chapter or two. I can't thank you all enough for flying with me._

**Chapter 5**

There's a text from Jeremy when Matt gets out of practice: _home for a few days, found a shin guard_, _yours?_ He heads over to pick it up.

Matt only lived at the Gilbert house for a day or so. He moved back out when Bonnie got involved and Elena needed to move back in. No room for him, which was fine, because there isn't an inch of that place that doesn't hold some sort of memory. Puking in the hallway after Thanksgiving when he was in second grade; trading candy on the rug in the living room with Elena and Jeremy every Halloween until high school; stealing a kiss in the kitchen at the annual Gilbert July 4th party; groping Elena's boobs in the tree house out back, before they were really even handfuls. He has as many memories in the Gilbert house as he does in his own. But living there? Really uncomfortable. It's better that Bonnie's there now. And that Elena's back.

Elena opens the door when he knocks. "Matt," she says, her smile rich and warm. It says everything: honest to goodness pleasure at seeing him, apology and shame for using him like a blood bag, relief that he's the one who lived. They never did have to talk much out loud.

"Hey," he breathes, stepping inside.

Bonnie comes down the stairs holding a cardboard box. It looks full. "Hey, Matt. Is this yours?" She tilts the box forward and almost topples down the stairs. Elena catches Bonnie and the box with one hand. Damn, she is fast now. And strong. It's weird.

"The shin guard? I guess." He swipes it off the top of the box. Just inside the box, right on top, he can see Elena's necklace. "Are you throwing that away?"

Elena gazes at the box as Bonnie sets it by the door. "Packing it away, actually. Jonathan Gilbert's old journals, some stuff Ric left, a few of Jenna's things. Can't bear to keep them here. And yeah, that necklace, too. Jeremy found it while he was training down in the caves yesterday and brought it back for me, even took out the vervain. But it was never really mine to begin with and it's too dangerous to keep around."

"Dangerous?"

Bonnie sits down on the steps, her hands drooping off her knees. "It's Mama Original's talisman. Works like a bridge from the other side. We can't let it fall into the wrong hands."

Matt nods. How many layers of horrible are there to this town? "It wasn't yours?" he asks Elena.

"It was really Rebekah's. Stefan stole it. Inadvertently." She attempts a smile. Matt can tell just mentioning Stefan still smacks of awkward ex guilt for her. She felt that way about him, once, too. He got to know that lame smile attempt all too well.

Matt shifts his weight. An idea is blooming. A long shot. Probably not worth mentioning, but what the hell. "Bonnie, can you un-magic it?"

"I tried to destroy it, but it just came right back."

"No, I mean, can you separate it from Rebekah's mom? Can you just make it an ordinary necklace with no particular… allegiance?"

Bonnie and Elena both give him the same confused, slightly suspicious expression.

"Because then it won't be dangerous anymore," he scrambles to explain.

Elena nods slowly, getting it. "Yeah, that's a good idea," she agrees. "A really good idea."

"I don't know," Bonnie says, shaking her head. "I still have almost no power. I doubt I could manage it."

Jeremy comes down the hall with another box, this one huge and probably heavy as hell, but he's carrying it like it could be a box of feathers. "Call Shane. He might have a suggestion."

"Yeah, okay," Bonnie agrees with a quick flash of a grin, digging her phone out of her pocket while Jeremy heads out to Elena's car with the giant box.

Matt catches Elena's eye. "Can I talk to you a sec?" he asks, indicating the porch with a toss of his head.

"Sure," she says, following after him.

They sit down side by side on the porch swing, a deceptively old, squeaky contraption that Matt suspects is held together with nothing but paint and hope. He should come by and hammer a few more nails in, just to keep it together. Elena and Jeremy are new at being their own parents.

"What's up?" Elena prompts.

"If Bonnie manages to fix that necklace and you still don't want it, can I have it?"

Elena is silent for a few swings. "Why?" she finally asks.

"To give it back to Rebekah."

They just swing for a while. Matt cannot formulate a way back into the conversation. He thinks back to all of the things he's asked Elena for over the years, including that first kiss, the unfinished half of probably hundreds of sandwiches, notes from class, the keeping of secrets. Her heart. She always, always said yes. "Of course," she says, peering at him steadily.

"Thanks," he mutters, watching his hands in his lap.

"Rebekah tried to kill you," she says.

He chuckles lightly. "Actually, she tried to kill _you_."

"Oh, that's much better," she laughs.

"Listen," he says, bracing himself, "your brother dated, dumped, and is now living with a witch – the same brother who was in love with a ghost. You've been in love with not one but two vampire brothers. Your best friend is the emotional support for her ex-boyfriend the magical vampire hunter. And Caroline, and Tyler... You guys are my closest friends." He smiles sadly at his hands. "I just want you all to be happy. I wasn't always thrilled with your choices, but I learned to roll with the punches. So can you."

They swing some more. "You're right," she says. Squeak, squeak. "I want you to be happy, too. But please, _please_ be careful. Don't forget, Rebekah tortured Damon. And like you said, she tried to kill me. She's kind of evil."

He sighs, accepting what he's about to say only the split second before he says it. "Actually, she's kind of wonderful." Squeak, squeak, squeak. "Yeah, she gets carried away. She can be vicious. For a thousand years her main influence was Klaus, what do you expect? I'm starting to see that that's not the real her. I really think she's just a girl who's young and kind of reckless and who hasn't been loved back, maybe ever."

Elena stops the swing with the tip of her toe. She exhales a slow, even breath. He knows she doesn't have to breathe; she's doing it for him, to make him feel more comfortable. "Okay. Okay, Matt."

* * *

At practice the next afternoon, there's a broad-chested, middle-aged man in the bleachers, watching the team scrimmage and run drills. The guy is wearing a shiny navy jacket with yellow stripes down the arms and a yellow block M on the front: the University of Michigan. Probably an alum, reliving his golden high school days. Matt tries to ignore him, but every time he shoots a look his way, the guy's attention is focused on him. Luckily, Matt is having a pretty good day, both on the field and off. Bonnie called that morning. She and Shane figured out how to despell the necklace. It's in Matt's locker. Success has energized him.

The coach sends the team into the locker room to get cleaned up and the Michigan jacket guy hails Matt with a wave and a grunt. "Donovan?"

"Yeah," he calls, meeting the guy on the sideline. Matt wipes his hand on his practice jersey before offering it to shake.

"Impressive," the guys says.

"Thanks."

"Ever been to Ann Arbor?"

Random. "No?" Matt sort of asks.

The guy smiles like he's hiding a present behind his back. "I'm Sam Cubberley. Recruiter for U of M football."

"Oh my God," Matt whispers before he can stop himself. There hadn't been a single recruiter that came to visit all year; the new coach had no contacts at all. He was barely able to plan an offense without Matt's guidance. Matt had all but given up hope of playing college ball. Big Ten? Forget it. "Sorry, sir, I didn't realize -"

"No apologies, son. You're the real thing. Pretty sure we can find a spot for you on the team. Can't wait to see you play Friday night. Glad she called."

"She?" Ridiculous question. He knows who called.

"Girlfriend?"

Matt opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Sam laughs loud and long, clapping Matt on the shoulder hard and walking him toward the locker room.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_Happy New Year! Here is the last chapter of my present to you, with (spoiler alert) an unabashedly happy ending because sometimes characters just need them. Thank you all for reading, for taking a chance on this improbable couple, and for sending me thank you notes. May your new year be filled with all the wonderfulness you can handle, plus at least a teaspoon more._

* * *

"Don't leave," Matt rasps under his breath as he runs right past Rebekah on the sideline, on his way back for the last play of the game. He glances over his shoulder at her and winks. Her eyes sparkle under the field's floodlights.

The last play is unnecessary: the Mystic Falls Timberwolves are already beating the Plymouth Panthers by ten points. There are less than fifteen seconds left in the quarter and Matt has barely left the field the entire game. They could just take a knee; any more points would just be gravy. But one perfect play could be glorious and Shaun, the underrated, third-string running back, is up and raring to go. A simple fake, a simple pass, everybody knows the plan. Break.

"You got this," Tyler says, slapping his back on the way to the line.

Matt throws the ball like he's shooting an arrow. It flies high, fast, and far. Shaun catches it mid-stride, twenty empty yards outside the end zone, and takes it home, to the roaring delight of the crowd. The defensive line hoists Matt up on their shoulders within seconds of the double zero buzzer.

"Guys, guys!" he protests, but they don't care.

It wasn't always like this. The Timberwolves always struggled, the whole time Matt has been on the team. Coach Tanner wasn't great at promoting cooperation. He thrived in conflict and made a point of sowing in-team competition. It was ugly. No one ever felt secure or supported. At least the new coach wants the guys to work as a team. He's just really new at this; he's still not sure what he wants the team to do. Needs a lot of support himself.

But having a recruiter in the stands energized the players tonight and Matt couldn't be prouder of what they've accomplished. Balanced awkwardly on several sets of shoulder pads, Matt gazes out over the field, now filling with parents and friends and yes, the cheer squad.

Over a dozen ponytails, more than two dozen pom-poms, but no sign of Rebekah.

He bends and twists until the guys finally let him down. Over on the sideline, Sam Cubberley is nodding, one eye on the field, while the new coach talks at him incessantly. When the recruiter catches Matt's eye, he motions for a word.

"Sir," Matt says, emerging from the edge of the crowd.

"Even more impressive than I thought you'd be, Donovan."

"Nice of you to say so, sir."

"You ever think about playing college ball?"

"Every day, sir. Every day." It's much less true than it used to be, but it could be true. If things were different. And now, who knows, maybe they can be.

"Well, there's no question. You can expect a call from us. And a letter."

"Yes, sir," Matt says, biting back a proud, relieved smile while he shakes the man's hand. "Thank you."

Cubberley claps Matt on the shoulder with his meaty paw as the coach launches into his monologue again, leaving Matt free to return to his search. Rebekah has to be here somewhere. He takes a deep breath and dives back in to the crowd. It's like going through a car wash: he's buffeted by near-constant congratulatory slaps and brushes from spectators. No Rebekah anywhere. Shit.

He checks the back alley, sends a starry-eyed freshman cheerleader into the girls' locker room looking for her, climbs to the top of the bleachers to find her. She's nowhere. Finally, with most of the team already gone, he has to give up. He showers quickly and is still adjusting his shirt when he heads out to the parking lot.

Rebekah is waiting for him, leaning against the hood of his truck. "You stayed," he marvels.

"You asked me to."

He nods. His grin refuses to be stifled. "Can I give you a lift?"

Rebekah cocks her hip and pouts, thinking. "I only ride in extremely nice cars. Do you have a nice car?"

"Not really."

She bats his shoulder and skips to the passenger side.

* * *

"I thought you were taking me home," Rebekah says as Matt turns toward his part of town.

"I am. Mine. I have something for you."

Rebekah is quiet for long enough that Matt turns his head to see what's wrong. She's studying him. "You do?"

He smirks. Surprising her is one hundred percent better than being on the receiving end of one of her gifts. He's actually excited, pretty much brimming with anticipation to reunite her with something that must have meant the world to her, once upon a time. He nods and keeps driving, finally parking on his steep, short driveway.

Matt comes around and opens the door for Rebekah. Maybe it's old fashioned but he likes the gesture, the feeling of taking care of her. And who else ever treats her like this? No one. No one but him.

She twists in the seat and lets her legs hang toward the step. Her mouth is screwed up into a kind of pouty grimace off to one side, confused and trembling but pleased underneath it all. It's endearing to see her like this, a big emotional pretzel. Matt takes her small, cool hand and helps her out of the truck. His hand feels feverish in comparison, sweaty and enormous and hairy and he's never felt more like a redneck than right now, so he drops her hand as soon as her feet touch the concrete.

She follows behind him to the porch while he flips the keys on his key chain. He unlocks the door and swings it open. They share a clogged look about not needing an invitation anymore and then she steps past him into the house. He crosses the threshold behind her, the scent of her freshly washed hair filling the air around him.

"Wait here," he says, lurching self-consciously down the hallway to his bedroom. The necklace is in a gift box, something his mother had kept in the basement along with scraps of Christmas wrapping paper and a few used bows. It's not much, just a boring white box with a limp square of cotton inside. But the box isn't the point, he reminds himself. He fits the lid over the necklace and steadies himself with a deep breath, then turns to head back to Rebekah.

Too late. She's already stepping through his bedroom doorway. "I'm not actually a very patient person." She offers an apologetic smile.

Matt grins and nods. "It's okay, I guess. You've seen the place before," he says, glancing around the room.

"Still as lovely as ever."

The air thrums between them. Matt's gaze is drawn to her, he can't help it. When their eyes meet, it sizzles. "This is yours," he rasps, holding the box out to her.

She scrunches her brow in confused surprise but takes the box and lifts the lid. "No, no no, Matt," she gasps. "What have you done?" She lets the box slip out of her fingers onto the floor.

"Don't worry. It's not dangerous anymore." He kneels at her feet and picks up the necklace, cradling the pendant and letting the chain dangle from his hand. He stands up, offering it to her again. "Jeremy found it in the caves and Bonnie worked out a spell to free it. It's not a talisman anymore. It's not linked to the other side."

The fear in Rebekah's eyes turns to something else. Sadness, maybe.

He opens the clasp and shrugs lightly, offering to help her put it on, but Rebekah shrinks away from him. He rushes to reassure her. "It's just a necklace now. _Your_ necklace, way before it was Stefan's or Elena's. It's yours and now that it's safe, I wanted you to have it back." She doesn't move, just watches the necklace like a deer watches a wolf. Matt sinks back on his heels a little. "But if you don't want to wear it, I understand." He should have thought this through. She doesn't have any reason to trust him. Of course, she thinks it's a trick. His hands begin to drop. He's ruined everything.

Her lips open but it's a few seconds before she speaks. "Are you absolutely sure she's not… in there?"

Matt nods carefully. There's at least a seed of hope. "According to Bonnie, it's completely empty. Scout's honor."

She reaches out trembling fingers but stops short of touching it. "And you believe her?"

It breaks Matt's heart a little that trust comes so hard for her. She has had so few people in her long life she could trust. And it hits him, right in the gut, that he wants to be one of them. "Yeah, I trust her. She wouldn't let it go if there was any risk."

She breathes a weak laugh. Is that a good sign?

"It can't hurt you now. I wouldn't do that to you."

"You wouldn't? Why not?"

Her question is a reflex. It's so direct, it catches him like a choke chain. "Because." He searches her face for the answer, but it's not there. Doesn't matter; it's on the tip of his tongue. "Because your heart is good, because you want to be good. Because you've tried to get to know me so you could apologize in a way that meant something. And it _has_ meant something. I've seen you more clearly with every gift. I've watched you let yourself be the kind of person you think I need in my life. You're creative, generous… tenacious…. You called the recruiter for me, didn't you?"

She blinks. Nods. She probably wasn't planning to take credit for this one.

"It's gonna change my life, Rebekah. My future. Everything. I'm gonna get out of Mystic Falls and do something useful. I can't thank you enough."

"You don't have to thank me. He had already heard of you. He just needed to be reminded." She suddenly straightens. "I didn't compel him, you know."

"Never thought you did."

They stand facing each other, looking at the necklace still glinting in Matt's palm. "I wanted to erase all of us," Rebekah says. "To put your life right, the way it would have been had there never been vampires or werewolves here."

"That's not -"

"It's impossible, I know, so instead I set out to adjust some things, so you could have the life you deserve. A life that rewards you for being kind and trustworthy. For being a true friend. A house that's safe and warm. Enough money to buy groceries without having to work more. And Mr. Cubberley's notice, so you could have the future that's meant for you."

"You did good," he sighs. His heart feels light as a balloon and enormous, swelling in his chest. "You're like a guardian angel."

She chuckles. "Never been called that before."

"Look, I'm sorry. I suck at gifts. I didn't think."

"No, it's… perfect. Could you…?" she asks, pulling her hair over one shoulder.

Matt leans closer to encircle her neck with the chain. His fingers fumble but he manages to fasten the clasp on the second try. When he's done, he steps away and smiles sadly. "You know, aside from losing my truck, the junky house and crappy job were more about my mom than anything else. There's nothing you can do about that. She's just better at drinking and disappointing people than at being a parent. She's not your responsibility."

She pauses. "She could be."

His brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

"I could help her," she says quietly. "I could find her, bring her home. I'd have to compel her, but I could stop her drinking."

"Are you serious?" he asks, his voice as raw as his heart.

"I should have thought of this one first," she says, berating herself. "You're so young to be doing it all on your own. I know what it's like."

"No really, Rebekah. It's okay."

She meets his pleading eyes. "But it would solve so many problems for you. And it's what you want."

"Maybe someday, yeah. It'd be great to not have to worry about her anymore. And I'd love for her to be safe and healthy. Give her a chance at being happy, having a good life. Even though she'd fight it."

"I can do it, Matt. I'm glad to do it."

"I know. But not yet." He takes her hand, holding it like a baby bird. "I'm okay now. I don't need anything else. I don't want anything else." He steps in so close, all he can smell is her hair. He's too close to look into her eyes; his gaze falls to her pale pink lips, moist and just slightly open. He threads his fingers through the soft wisps of hair at the nape of her neck. "Right now, I'm kind of glad I live alone," he breathes.

A last flicker of doubt flashes across his mind, something having to do with teeth and fear and blood, but he tamps it down easily because this, them, is more right than he ever could have imagined. His heart leaps as he closes the final space between them, brushing his lips against hers, finding exactly the right way to join them. He gathers her into his arms and she melts against him. When his fingers comb through her hair, she shivers and gives more of herself, opens herself further. She's stunningly, perfectly real and he doesn't have to be anyone other than the real him, the him she unwrapped with careful persistence, gift after gift.


End file.
